


remove the blade and start from zero

by walking_through_autumn



Category: Shingeki no Kyojin | Attack on Titan
Genre: Gen, Reincarnation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-12
Updated: 2013-09-12
Packaged: 2017-12-26 09:08:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,494
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/964153
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/walking_through_autumn/pseuds/walking_through_autumn
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He has a habit of taking in strays. </p><p>A reincarnation fic with Mike, Gerger, Nanaba, Rene, and Henning. (Spoilers for those who are not caught up with the manga.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	remove the blade and start from zero

**Author's Note:**

> Warning: There will be non-graphic violence and implications of rape and prostitution. If you haven't read the manga or do not know who these characters are, please do not read. It will not make sense. Also, there is a ridiculous amount of head-canon ahead.
> 
> Hope you'll enjoy!

_1\. break out of the deep darkness_

He finds the first one in an alleyway, drunk and disheveled. His aimless wandering had brought him there without his notice, through the maze of streets, past the stores with their bright interiors beckoning. Before the mouth of the alleyway he pauses before turning in, following the smell of fatigue and rebellion, and it leads him to stop before the boy on the ground clutching a bottle of cheap wine to himself. The boy’s a mess of cuts, bruises, rumpled clothing that have seen better days, all of his strength focused on his grip on the bottle. Standing there, his body casting a shadow over the boy’s body, he thinks about his dreams, long nights of silence.

He has waited long enough, and he can bear waiting a while more. Folding his legs carefully, he settles on the ground next to the boy, listening to his breathing. This close he can smell, beneath the cloud of alcohol, the scent of warm polished wood, wax on a melting candle, the grit of determination and fierce loyalty. He closes his eyes and breathes in deep.

It takes an hour of him reliving his dreams and watching the sun work its way past the narrow skyway of the alley, leaving the hazy blue skies of late summer in its wake. The boy comes awake slowly from his own dreams, rubbing his face with one hand, palm coming away dusty and dotted with dirt before he realizes there’s another person beside him.

Mike allows that rare smile to flit across his lips. “Hello,” he says.

The boy blinks. He blinks as though he isn’t sure if he’s in an alcohol-ridden haze, or if the guy beside him is solid and real. Mike watches him, knowing from the way his eyes go narrowed and focused that they’re remembering the same thing. A stampede of horses, a sharp order given over the sound of galloping, a man leading his team to an uncertain path, trusting the orders of his leader, their paths diverging further and further until they can no longer see each other. He can see the exact moment realization makes the boy’s eyes widen.

“Mike,” the boy chokes out, “Mike, you bastard.” His laugh is a wrangled thing of relief and disbelief. He punches Mike in the arm – Mike cannot feel anything except how badly he trembles. “You absolute tosser.”

Mike nods and leans back against the wall and the grime. “Gerger,” he says as a greeting. _Welcome back,_ he says in his mind.

“Fucker,” the boy says in a wet sort of voice, as though he had read Mike’s mind.

.

Mike refuses to talk any further until he has thrown Gerger into the shower with a set of clean clothes.

“Bastard,” Gerger says over his shoulder, cheery and fond, and it feels something like normal again.

In the meantime he looks around his own apartment. A shirt draped over the back of the chair is in need of washing, he has some dishes in the sink, and he can certainly afford to dust over the couch. He busies himself with these things for a while, but as long as it’s not Levi visiting it doesn’t matter if it’s still a bit messy. Gerger doesn’t seem to mind after he comes out of the shower and takes his first real look around the apartment, eyes scanning over every detail. He leans against the kitchen doorway and says, “Your place is depressingly empty.”

Mike finishes pouring the hot water into two cups before he looks up and nods.

“You haven’t met – ” Gerger fidgets with the sleeve of the shirt, unsure what to say. “I’m the first?”

He shakes his head. “Levi, Hanji, Erwin. We work in the same company.”

Gerger’s breath comes out in a whoosh. “Good. Good then.” In the glare of kitchen light and against his clean skin his bruises stand out starkly. Mike counts them with his eyes, lips tightening with every new injury he finds.

“What about you?” he asks.

“Me?” Distaste and embarrassment makes his expression sour. “I got – involved with the wrong crowd, I guess you can say.”

It happens. Levi had gotten involved with the wrong crowd too, until Erwin found him. Fitting how some things never change. Mike himself had been found by Erwin, though he tries not to think of those days.

“Parents?” he asks, to be sure.

“Dead. Been dead a long time,” Gerger says with a shrug. He accepts the cup of tea Mike hands over to him, observing the steam with a sort of childish fascination. The smoke curls and disappears into the space. “I didn’t think I’d find anyone.”

Mike hadn’t thought so too. He watches Gerger, the injuries changing into scars, imprints of large hands and fingers, blood trailing down a high cheekbone. He blinks and it turns into bruises and cuts again. There’s an old scar on the right side of Gerger’s forehead.

“We’ll find them,” he says.

Gerger snorts, a grin, much more fitting than his previous sour expression, settling itself on his face. There’s no need to say who they are.

.

_2\. escape like the gale_

It takes a month of Gerger staying with him, the guy finding a job at a café, and plenty of aimless wandering before they find the second stray. In that month Mike extracts Gerger’s story from him, reconciles the younger man in front of him with the soldier in his mind, and decides that he much prefers the way this Gerger holds himself, shoulders light and an easy manner about him, subject only to the terrors of daily life. In that month late summer gives way to red and yellow leaves, the chill starts to settle in and never seems to go no matter how much tea they drink. And on a day when the sun sets early and the night gloom takes over, they find a man strumming his guitar on a bench, city center with nobody stopping to listen.

Gerger is the first to stop in the crowd, prompting murmurs of unhappiness and complaints when people have to push past or walk around him. Mike stops beside him and follows his gaze to the man on the bench singing his songs. A man new to town, a constant traveller from the look of it. But his scent is familiar, the smell of quiet nights and steadfast affection, of old books read a hundred times. The song he sings is a haunting tune of remembrance and the walls humans have put up between each other, his deep voice easily carrying over the cold air. Gerger takes a sharp breath, feet rooted where he had stopped, and Mike is the one to go closer, slow step by slow step, until the man finishes his song and looks up.

“Hello, Sir,” he says, fingers strumming a chord on his guitar. Mike nods, hands buried in his pockets. “Do you have any requests?”

“Yes.” It had not been Mike who said this. The man looks to Mike’s side, something unreadable in his eyes. “Yes. _The March to Utgard_.”

They lock eyes for a moment before the man smiles and looks back at his guitar. He strums again, a D minor chord, the note lingering in the night. “I wouldn’t have thought that song’s to your taste, Sir,” he says, even as he starts to play the opening chords.

“It’s not,” Gerger says.

“Ah,” the man says, before he launches into song, the tale of a hopeless march into a castle that will swallow men alive. It is but a tourist curiosity these days, a ruin of stones and soil. But at night nobody goes there. The song this man is singing, the whisper of history and a past everybody’s forgotten, it weaves around them and makes Mike shudder from more than just the night chill. His voice is earnest and throaty and raw.

When he finishes none of them speak for a while. Until Gerger laughs, laughs like the first time he had met Mike, and he says, “Welcome back, Henning.”

Henning shakes his head and stands up, laying the guitar carefully on the bench. “Old friend,” he says, before Gerger catches him in a grip so tight he can hardly breathe.

.

Unlike Gerger, Henning is closer to the age Mike had expected him to be. And like when he had met Gerger, Mike wrinkles his nose, pushes Henning in the direction of the shower, and starts wondering about sleeping arrangements. He had thought his flat was much too large for one person. With three he starts thinking about rearranging the rooms, maybe buying a new bed, and he keeps pondering about it until Gerger pushes a cup of tea into his hands and makes him sit on the couch.

“We’ll think of something,” Gerger says, sipping the tea and sighing in relief at the warmth. “At least it’s just us three for now.”

“For now,” Mike echoes.

Gerger smiles and says, “Of course for now. Then when everyone’s here you can think about how you want to kick us out.”

He wonders if that’s even possible, or if he’ll even want that. When Henning comes out, looking far more presentable without the layers of travelling grime, Gerger pushes another cup of tea into Henning’s hand. Mike wonders when he had gotten so many cups, and if there’ll eventually be enough.

“Mike’s doing his worry thing again,” Henning says, conspiratorial voice so familiar Mike has to smile.

“Ah, leave him be,” Gerger says.

“You’re the surprising one. Since when were you so young?” Henning asks.

“I’ve always been young and handsome,” Gerger says in affront. “Compared to your ugly mug.”

“Distance really colours our memories, eh? Makes us see things that aren’t there,” Henning says in a fond way.

“Sometimes I really hate you.”

“Only sometimes? I need to step up my game,” Henning says.

Gerger snorts and shifts on the couch. “Keep your snark for when – ” he pauses then, staring at the cup in his hands. “You know. For when she’s here.”

“I’ll have to practice on you for now, then,” Henning says, sounding put-upon. “No fun.”

“Have I mentioned that I hate you?”

“Only twice.”

“I really have to step up on my game,” Henning says, taking a small sip from his cup and sighing.

.

In the end Gerger and Henning share the guest bedroom, and despite their grumbles they fall back into their familiar ways. Sometimes, unable to sleep, Mike finds them on the couch, talking in quiet murmurs, both of them grinning when they see him and inviting him to join in. Those nights they talk until the sun rises and then stagger off to work, Henning continuing to busk but also doing part-time at a local bookshop beside the café. This routine of daily life brings them into winter, when the world is sprinkled with a fine white and the wind works its way under their layers of clothes. And it is in this winter that the circus arrives for the end-of-year holidays, to the excitement of all the children.

“Circus, eh?” Gerger says, sitting at the edge of the field, watching them set up the big top and the surrounding, smaller tents. “They come every year. I’ve never been to see them.”

“No interest?” Henning asks.

“No money,” Gerger corrects. “You, Mike?”

Mike shakes his head, bringing the coffee close to his lips and inhaling the bittersweet scent. The steam mingles with the condensation of their breaths. For all that Gerger complains about the cold, Mike thinks he enjoys it if only because of the warmth that wine and other drinks bring.

“We should go this year then,” Henning says.

“Thinking of running away with the circus, you and your guitar?”

“ _Who’s gonna steal the show, you know, baby it’s the guitar man_ ,” Henning sings, same clear, deep voice as the day they met.

“In your wildest dreams,” Gerger says.

Henning sniffs. “You’re just a lout who can’t appreciate good music.”

“I’m just surprised my eardrums haven’t been torn.”

Henning whistles, a three note tune that mimics a startled bird. “Somebody’s touchy.”

“Shut up,” Gerger says, lazily flicking his wrist. “Eh, you’re right though, let’s come watch.”

“Opening night?”

Mike thinks of all the people, the overwhelming scent of a horde of humanity, and he shakes his head.

“Maybe not then,” Henning says with a thoughtful look. “Weekday night. They’re here for, what, a week?”

“Yeah, so that kids from neighbouring towns can come down too.”

“So it’s gonna be permanently busy?”

“If we avoid opening and closing we should be fine,” Gerger says. “Do you think they’ll wanna come too? Erwin and Hanji and Levi?”

“They might. But maybe not with us,” Mike says. Levi’s still searching, even if he never says anything, and he knows the man’s relieved for him but bitter that Mike’s found two of his, but Levi has no clues to go on. Hanji’s searching for hers too. And Erwin – he thinks Erwin’s search will never quite end. Mike had once thought it might have something to do with when they died, but there doesn’t seem to be any rules to this sort of thing. He just walks and walks and hopes that they are trying to find him just as he is looking for them.

“Next Monday, then, when we’re on leave,” Henning says with finality.

“We’re on leave?” Gerger asks.

“If we weren’t then we are now.”

“I don’t think my boss really cares. Mike?”

Mike shrugs. “Erwin will understand,” he says.

“You always say that,” Gerger says with a small laugh.

Because it’s true. When it comes to the nightmares of their past, Erwin will always understand.

.

_3\. awake from a long dream_

Monday brings with it another fine dusting of snow, and the world seems ethereal until the ground turns to grey slush under the combined force of a whole town. They arrive in time for the afternoon show, and while the acrobats and tight-rope walkers are amazing they agree that it cannot hold a candle to the gear they’ve worked with. There is a lingering envy in their eyes, the joy of flight mingled with the constant fear of death, as they plant their feet in the ground and try to walk without slipping. They pop into the surrounding tents, reject the advances of the fortune-telling lady, and Gerger buys candy floss and attempts to string it into Mike’s hair. Mike trips him before he can do so.

In the last of the pale afternoon light, they slip into the last tent and startle the lady behind the table. The tent is warm from the heater and lit with oil lamps, casting an orange glow onto the table and the scattered chairs. Beneath the fragrance of light incense there is something musky about her, the heat of the summer sun despite the winter. But her features are unclear, hidden behind veils. The only thing they can see are her eyes.

“I certainly did not expect three visitors at once,” she says, amusement in her tone. “Well, sit down then. Who’s the one who wants a card reading?”

They all look at each other until Gerger and Henning look at Mike, who looks from one to the other with a blank gaze.

“Card reading?” Henning asks in a helpless sort of way.

“Tarot,” she says with a shrug. “It’s a popular thing at the circus. Most people just think it’s cool, they’re not serious about it. But if you really have a question, I’ll try my best to help you. And from the looks of it – ” her eyes focus on Mike – “it seems you have a question.”

Mike sits opposite her, studying her expression, the way silks cannot hide her hunter’s body. He meets her eyes and says, “I’m looking for people. But I do not know if I can find them.”

There is a flicker in her expression, her shoulders tensing for a bit before they relax. “How long have you been searching?” she asks in a quiet voice.

“I don’t know. Since I was a boy,” he says.

“Why are you looking for them?”

Mike takes a deep breath and links his hands together, looking over her shoulder at the flickering fire caught in the lamp. There is no one good reason why he’s looking for them. But he knows if he doesn’t find them he’ll never be at peace.

“I need them,” he says.

Behind the veil he knows she’s smiling a little. “How do you know they need you? That’s a bit of a selfish reason, isn’t it?”

“It is,” he agrees, “but I still need to look for them. And at the very least – I need to know they’re doing well.”

“You know they’re out there?”

“I hope they are.”

She nods and leans forward, reaching for the deck of cards she had placed beside her and shuffling them with practiced ease. “It seems you’ve found two of them,” she says, looking at Gerger and Henning sitting behind him. They blink in surprise at her addressing them. “It feels that way, in any case.”

“You are good at this,” Mike says.

“When it’s with serious people, yes,” she says. Satisfied with the shuffling she places the deck next to her and begins to explain in a low but firm voice, “What I’ll do for you now is a basic reading. While we’re doing the reading, I want you to focus on the question you have, of whether you can find these people. Alright?”

With his nod as an answer, she flips the first card over and says, “This is your present – Death.” On a white horse a skeleton rides, greeting nobles and peasant children alike. She traces a finger down the side of the card and in his voice he can hear her smile. “This is the beginning of something new for you, and it is likely that you see it this way too. The end of a phase that has served its purpose,” she says softly.

It’s hard for him to imagine that it’s the end. But every day he wakes up, goes to work, moves freely without fear – he nods, prompting her to flip a second card over, crossing it on top of the first. “This is your challenge – The Hanged Man. You’re not going to be progressing for a while in looking for them. It’s possible that you might have to sacrifice something, or simply – wait.” She joins him in examining the man hanging from a tree by his foot, placid expression on his face, looking for all the world like he’s simply waiting to be let down from the tree. “And waiting is the toughest thing to do.”

“Even tougher than going out to find them?” he asks.

She looks at him, the expression in her eyes soft, as she places the third card to the right of the small cross and says, “The distant past – Ten of Swords.” He does not shudder at the fallen person pierced in a long line from neck to legs, bleeding freely onto the ground. In the distance dark clouds gather. But it is a mercy to die by human means, to have a body to prove its existence. “You’ve been through a great sorrow in your past, the ruin and death of everybody you’ve once loved. And you couldn’t do anything.” Something in her voice changes when she says, again, “Nobody could do anything. And this is why you’re looking for them.”

“They must be alright now,” he says, though he’s no longer sure who he’s trying to soothe.

“Aye,” she says when she turns over the fourth card and places it below the cross. “Your recent past, the Four of Swords. Peace – ” he follows her finger as she traces the golden man in eternal rest – “relief and rest from the sorrow of your past. And if you were to do nothing to find these people,” she continues as she places the fifth card directly above the small cross, “the Five of Wands…you’ll face problems. You’ve said you needed them.”

“I need to know where they are.”

“And if you don’t, you’ll never be at peace.” For five boys doing faux battle, it is a remarkably complicated cross of long sticks and a fight with an uncertain end. To the left of the small cross she places the sixth card, completing the large cross. With a stern, unyielding gaze, The High Priestess gazes at him, framed by the young moon at her feet. “A woman will come into your life in the immediate future, and this will affect your search, for better or for worse.”

“For better, I think,” Mike says. The smell of the incense, the musk, the summer sun – it has soaked into him despite the winter outside. “I know.”

He thinks it is not his imagination that she smiles before she turns the seventh card over and places it to the bottom right of the large cross. “This is what you really feel about your situation – what you’re bringing to the reading. Six of Cups – the relationships in your distant past, you’re bringing them to the present. Everything in your life now…they’re linked to your past,” she says, raising an eyebrow. “You’re a determined man, aren’t you?”

“Yes,” he answers simply, looking straight into her eyes.

But she’s not a woman to back down. Keeping the eye contact, she turns over the eighth card and places it above the Six of Cups. “Your environment – this determines whether it’s conducive to your search.” She breaks eye contact to study the card, gaze tracing over the eight wands pointing in one direction. “It’s a card of hope, your conditions are favourable – but considering you have to wait,” she says, looking back at the card of challenge, “I think there’s a journey you will have to take.”

“The search continues,” he says simply, echoing her thoughts.

“Yes. Along with your hopes and fears – ” she draws out and places a card above the eighth, a man with his back facing three cups balanced on five – “a change of viewpoint. Perhaps you hope the past relationships will develop into something newer, something better. Or perhaps you fear that your past relationships can no longer be continued, and that you will have to sever them.” She meets his gaze again. “But I have a feeling you’re not that type of man, Mike.”

He stays silent. Outside the tent they can hear the rush of people arriving for the evening show, the cheers and noise of children. But in the tent it’s as though the four of them are inhabiting a different world. She flips over the tenth card and places it above the Eighth of Cups. Ten cups shine in an arc over a family, and the sky is so clear it feels unreal. “Your final outcome, should you overcome the wait and continue your search – lasting happiness. True friendships. Peace,” she says the last in a wistful tone. “Peace after all you’ve overcome. And you deserve that.”

Mike reaches out and takes up the final card, looks at the children dancing and the couple gazing up at the arc of cups. “As do you, Rene. As do you.”

In the glow cast by the oil lamps her eyes shine and she whispers, her voice clear to all of them in this silent tent, “I’ve missed you guys.”

Henning is out of his seat before she’s even finished saying it, stalking forward and grabbing her around the waist. She yelps as she’s lifted up before she bursts out in laughter, wiping the small beads of tears away with one hand, the other clinging to Henning’s shoulder.

“Took you damn fucking long, Rene,” Gerger says, standing beside Mike and watching the two of them spin around. “You didn’t have to do this card reading thing.”

She laughs, giddy both from the spin and the sight of them. “I couldn’t believe it’s really you guys. And I do like reading the cards. Put me down now, Henning!”

“I can’t believe they made you dress up in this thing!” Henning says after he puts her down. She wobbles a bit and supports herself on the table, grin so wide it cannot be hidden beneath the silk veil.

“This? Something about mystique and shit, though it has nothing to do with card reading at all,” she says with a laugh, removing the veil and revealing her flat nose, the good-natured tilt of her lips.

“The High Priestess,” Mike murmurs. “The immediate future.”

She looks at them all and smiles, fond. There is a twinkle in her eyes when she says, “Figures you guys need a bit of feminine intuition, eh?”

.

Rene creates a bit of an uproar by having run away from the circus instead of to it, which is eventually soothed over when the ringmaster contends that they can find another tarot card reader. Besides, he isn’t brave enough to face three men who have the glint of warrior eyes.

With Rene the flat arrangements become more complicated, though she claims the couch for her own. Eventually Mike convinces her to use his room while he sleeps on the couch, but considering that every night they gather on the couch and talk till they fall asleep, it becomes more of a situation where they bring their blankets and pillows and curl into each other for warmth on the floor.

They spend the long winter this way, warm tea and talks during the occasional blizzard that plagues the city. Rene gives tarot readings in a corner of the café that Gerger works in, and when she doesn’t do readings she’s baking muffins and cakes to sell. On their evenings, when the cold is bearable and they have food in their bellies, they roam the streets, through the oppressive gloom of winter nights. On the weekends, when their free time matches, they travel to the next city and keep on searching, going down dank alleyways and past the backdoors of shops.

Before they realize it, spring is upon them when the first flower blooms in the corner curb of the apartment building, a tiny yellow thing that have withstood the snow and the rush of human traffic. In the nights, in the last of winter’s chill, they gather at the couch, sometimes in comfortable silence. They never talk about the past. They never feel it’s right to talk about the past. They see it, the flash of remembrance at the sight of forest green, the way somebody’s eyes linger when a bird takes flight. But they’ve never felt it’s time to talk about it.

They keep searching.

.

_4\. escape with a body painted red_

As spring brings flowers and fragrances and the nights become warmer, the fourth one literally runs into them. In a city known for its prosperous nightlife, they walk through the forgotten streets, the rows of broken houses and sad attempts at cleanliness. The air stinks of despair and the constant movement of humans, in and out of this area. Mike narrows his eyes and takes a deep whiff, holding a hand up – they quiet down, concentrating.

In the distance they can hear a scuffle, the voice of a young boy and the jeers of men. They keep their tread light, taking quick but quiet steps through the street. The scuffle grows louder with the roar of an angry man and rapid, pattering footsteps.

Mike smells him before he sees him. The scent of grass that the wind brings, the spice of cinnamon and dark chocolate, hidden beneath the metallic layer of blood and sweat. Then the boy emerges from the street corner and runs straight into Mike. Mike doesn’t flinch. The boy is another story. He stumbles from the impact and lands on the ground, a soft cry as his hands break his fall.

“Are you alright?” Mike murmurs as he kneels down.

When the boy glances up Mike looks into blue eyes a shade lighter than the sea, darker than the spring sky. The boy freezes for a second, looks at all of them, before the sound of approaching men breaks him from his reverie. He clutches at the collar of his torn shirt with his left hand and stands up, his right hand tight around a small knife, glint of steel in sunlight. He reaches Gerger’s collarbone in height, a spindly thing that can hardly be older than fifteen.

“I’m sorry,” he says, apologetic and sincere. “I have to go.”

“We’ll help you,” Gerger says on instinct. From the way Henning's and Rene's faces tighten, Mike knows they agree.

The boy looks behind him, eyes narrowing at the sound of them approaching. “I cannot involve you. They’re after me.”

“I think we have a good instinct for who the bad guys are,” Henning says with a grin. “Been a long time since some good action, huh?”

The boy looks back at them, eyes calm and narrow beneath his fringe of sandy blonde hair. “There are five of them,” he says. “Are you sure?”

“One for each of us,” Rene says, cracking her knuckles. “Let’s do this.”

Before the boy says anything more the first man turns around the corner. The boy spins, bringing his leg up and landing a solid blow to the man’s unprotected side, eliciting a howl of pain from him. Henning whistles, impressed, and when the other men turn around the corner Mike is the first to grab one of them by the collar, solidly flinging him to the ground.

“What the fuck!” one of them says, a man with a scar on his cheek and stained clothes. “The kid’s got reinforcements!”

“Too bad for you then,” Gerger says, dodging the man’s blow and landing a punch in his stomach.

The fight is almost absurdly easy, after Rene lands a punishing blow in one guy’s solar plexus, and Henning cripples another by putting all of his force into a kick to the guy’s family jewels. Two of them have vicious cuts below their eyes, knife slashes that could have taken their vision, and it makes the fight easier when they’re blinded by blood and rage. The boy sits on the guy he had kicked, the ringleader by the looks of it, holding the knife to the side of his neck.

“You little whore,” the guy manages to spit out despite the numerous blows the boy had dealt. “That’s the only thing you’re good for, and you manage to fuck it up.”

The boy presses the knife closer to the man’s neck and says, calm as anything, “You broke the deal.”

“If we weren’t fucking that little girl she wouldn’t have anything to eat,” the man says with a garbled laugh. “Who knew she’d be so weak?”

The boy’s eyes harden and he says, “Ah, so it’s her fault for being weak and dying. Then I guess you wouldn’t blame me, right? Since you’re the weaker one here.”

The flash of fear in the man’s eyes heightens, and with a yell he attempts to reach for the boy’s neck with his hands. The boy twists and slashes at both arms, severing muscle, showering himself with blood in the process. He studies the knife and brings it back against the man’s neck, murmurs, “I wonder if I should give you mercy for the pain now. Even though you didn’t give mercy to her, did you?” Painted red, eyes calm as the skies before a storm, he poises to give the final blow.

Mike catches his wrist. It’s thin, so thin he can encircle it easily with his grip, pulled taut with the intent to kill. The boy glances up at the hold, more curious than angry, and he says, “I’m afraid the blood must be terribly upsetting, but if you could please let me finish the job?”

Mike shakes his head and pries the knife away with his other hand, putting it out of reach of both the boy and the ringleader. The boy lets go easily enough, his eyes still fixed on Mike, not resisting when Mike lifts him to his feet. With damage dealt to his limbs and torso the man doesn’t move except to take heaving breaths.

“Why did you stop me?” the boy asks, his expression still clear and curious.

“You needn’t dirty your hands anymore,” Mike says in answer, a sad smile on his face. “It seems this life hasn’t treated you kindly either.”

There is a long silence, broken only by the pained moans and gasps of the still conscious men. The boy’s hands go limp in Mike’s hold, his gaze never wavering from Mike’s. When he smiles it’s tremulous and small, barely an upward tilt of his lips, and his voice shakes when he says, “Mike.” He says it like a question, a statement he cannot bring himself to believe in.

Mike nods, but it’s Gerger who says, voice hoarse, “ _Nanaba_.”

Nanaba shakes his head, looking at the floor as he says, “It _is_ you guys. I thought – I didn’t know if you remembered – ”

“We do, old friend,” Henning says, ignoring the collapsed men in favour of walking closer. “You’re a mess.”

“I know,” he says, half a sob, “I didn’t want to meet you guys like this.”

“Idiot. You’re an incredible, unbelievable idiot,” Gerger says, turning Nanaba around, Mike letting go so he can do so. Ignoring the blood Gerger pulls Nanaba close and crushes him tight to his chest. “Idiot,” he says again, all too aware of the way his voice is cracking.

Nanaba grips back, leaving blood smears on Gerger’s shirt, his small frame trembling in Gerger’s hold.

“I thought we wouldn’t have to deal with so much filth,” Rene says, frowning at the limp bodies. “This is such a mood killer.”

“Eh, we’ll bring them to the police, easy enough,” Henning says, planting a foot down on a man’s chest when he makes an attempt to sit up. “Finish the job properly this time.”

Nanaba makes a strangled sound, a mix between a laugh and a sob, which ends in a squeak when Mike joins in the hug, arms going around him and Gerger, and Rene and Henning squish their way in after Rene kicks the ringleader in the temple for good measure. Covered in the scent of blood and the soft light of spring sunlight, Mike closes his eyes and breathes in deep.

.

They haul the men to the police in downtown – the ones near the streets they had fought in are too drunk and useless for them to trust. It becomes a painful process of giving their statements and verifying them against the men’s terrified splutters before they are released. All the way back to the apartment Nanaba smiles but doesn’t speak, Rene refuses to let go of his hand, and the layer of blood crusts over and leaves dry flakes between their palms. They make a sight travelling, though they hide Nanaba in the midst of their circle at all times, and when they are back Nanaba disappears into the shower for a long while. They wangle something out of their combined collection of clothes for him, but they still end up dwarfing him. Even Rene’s shoulders are wider than his.

“I’ll grow, alright?” Nanaba says in a huff when Gerger cannot resist laughing at the sight, his damp hair having added to the overall image of a dog drowning in cloth. “I can kick your ass, even now. Don’t make me do it.”

In between chuckles Gerger says, “Show me another day, pal.”

He seems contented though, in one of Rene’s shirts and Gerger’s old pajama pants rolled up at the ankles, curled on the couch with a cup of tea, feet nudged under Mike’s thighs for added warmth. Henning, eager to play a song to a friend who isn’t sick of him yet, starts strumming his guitar and crooning about the traveller’s life, playing up the riffs, and at one point when singing turns into wailing Nanaba does throw a cushion at him to get him to shut up.

“You’re evil,” Henning says in a sing-song way, plucking a mournful chord. “Evil.”

“What’s evil is you threatening our eardrums,” he says with a yawn.

“That’s exactly what I said,” Gerger says, seeming pleased. He leans back against Mike’s shins, stretching out his leg to kick Henning’s foot. “Glad ta have you back, partner.”

“This lout’s been all lonesome,” Henning says in a not-so-secret whisper that carries across the room.

Rene snorts from where she’s sitting at the base of the couch, head resting on Nanaba’s thigh. “Says the one who gets distracted busking and keeps looking over the crowd. He’s been threatening to sing about your hair and how awful the center parting is if you don’t appear,” she says to Nanaba, who looks insulted.

“What’s wrong with the center parting?”

“It’s boring,” Henning says, casting a critical look over him. “Though what you need now is a haircut.”

Nanaba grabs his fringe between thumb and index finger and frowns at it. “I suppose it’s grown long,” he concedes.

“And this time I’m going with you to make sure you get a good cut. Without a center parting,” Henning adds.

“My hair, my rules,” Nanaba says, sticking his tongue out. “You don’t get to interfere.”

Henning strums a chord, as though he has taken it as a personal challenge.

Nanaba eventually falls asleep in the midst of their chatter, hands curled around his empty mug. Mike removes it, places it some distance away on the floor, and with lots of shifting and elbows accidentally digging into sides, they manage to settle on the floor, the combination of blankets somehow covering all of them.

“We really should get a large bed or something,” Rene says sleepily, slinging an arm around Nanaba’s waist. “My shoulder will kill me one day.”

“That’s what we always say,” Henning mumbles, one arm trapped under Rene’s head as she uses it for a pillow. He tugs at the blanket and says, “Oi, Gerger, stop stealing the blankets.”

“Am not,” Gerger says, voice muffled from where he’s squished between Mike and Nanaba. “It’s Mike.”

“Mike,” Henning says with a groan.

“Sorry,” Mike says, not sounding very apologetic.

But it’s a spring night, the hint of summer’s heat at the edge, and pressed against one another their sleep is dreamless and long. In the morning it is not a fading scream or cry, but birdsong and the murmur of an awakening town that rouses them from sleep.

.

Nanaba gets the haircut and, to Henning’s dismay, he keeps it with the center parting, hair ending in a slight wave. He decides to work at the bookshop as well, and Henning sometimes sings outside the store. When he’s not goofing off his voice is strong and deep, and he spins tales of castles and far-off lands, a sea that never ends, drawing patrons to both the bookshop and café. When Mike comes back from work he drops by the café first, grabs some coffee for all of them, and waits for Nanaba to drag himself away from his book and close up the shop. With proper nutrition and rest Nanaba finally starts to gain muscle – still a slim frame, but his wrists no longer look like they’ll snap with too much pressure. In this way nights grow shorter and the sun rays go from pleasantly warm to uncomfortably hot.

On the last of the spring nights, when it’s still cool enough for them to pile in front of the couch, they fall into a lull in their conversation. Nanaba traces his fingers along Gerger’s collarbone, almost absent-minded, and none of them are surprised when he says, softly, “I wanted to save you, you know.”

Not for the first time, Mike thinks that he never knew how they died, what had happened after he left the South group in Gerger’s charge.

“I know,” Gerger says. “Sometimes I think I can still feel your kick in my side.”

“What happened?” Rene asks. “After Henning and I – ” she makes a vague hand gesture.

“We ran out of gas,” Nanaba says, frowning. “And Gerger knocked his head.”

Mike had always wondered about the scar on Gerger’s forehead, how it can never fade.

“Kicked me into a room, where the wine was. Only somebody emptied it, so I didn’t get a drink before – well, yeah, I was pissed off,” Gerger says.

“Trust you to be pissed off at something like that,” Nanaba says with a snort, punching Gerger in the side.

“Don’t you start. You coulda used the gas to get back to safety,” Gerger says, rubbing his side.

“And leave you to fall?”

“I couldn’t have been saved,” Gerger reasons. “Ever thought that I wanted you to live?”

Rene sighs. “It’s the classic wanting each other to live scenario, huh?”

“I couldn’t have lost you too,” Nanaba says, drawing a knee up and hugging it close to him. “You know I’m a selfish guy.”

“That makes all of us,” Henning says with a small sigh. “But I never thought Mike would…”

They all turn to look at him. He doesn’t flinch away from their scrutiny. Just remembers – it had become easier to forget over the years, and over the months as he finds them and steadily ticks away his worries. But it’s still fresh, and he thinks it will not truly fade even after many, many years. “It was the Ape Titan,” he says. “It could speak.”

It’s as though they’re still living in the past when a collective shudder goes through them, as though the threat is still real. “What – what did it say?” Gerger asks, unsure if he wants to know the answer.

The scratchy voice, like the titan is unused to human communication, still sounds terrifyingly clear when he recalls it. “It asked what the thing around my hips was. The thing that made us fly.” If he closes his eyes he can recall the smell of the reinforced, lightweight metal, the slink of blade against sheath. “It took the gear away. Then it left me to the rest.”

It lingers, the silence and the smell of death, even here and now. Rene links her fingers with Nanaba’s and feels his answering grip, reassures herself with the warmth of Henning against her back, the sight of Gerger leaning against Mike’s solid weight. In a soft voice, like she doesn’t want to break the silence, she says, “What a mess. And after that – we don’t know what happened.”

“I don’t think I wanna know. I mean, we don’t even know why we can remember,” Gerger says.

“Second chance?” Henning suggests.

“To bum out the rest of our lives?” Gerger says. “I think I like that idea.”

“You’re still an idiot. Still not forgiving you for the shit you pulled,” Nanaba says.

“Doesn’t sound as convincing when you’re still stuck at the bratty age.”

Nanaba punches him in the side again.

They don’t say much after that. Mike watches as they each drift off to sleep. He thinks about summer, the heat that will force them to rethink the arrangements. Thinks about what they’re going to do from now on. Wonders if they will just remain in this town.

He drifts off in a warmth that becomes sticky as spring fades out.

.

_5\. outside the walls_

Over the next two years Nanaba and Henning start to bring second-hand geography books home, tattered things the owner gave to them because nobody wants them anymore. They unfurl the maps, pinpoints their location, and Henning places stickers on places he’s been to. Rene joins in with what she knows of where the circus had gone, places where there’s only summer and where the forest air is wet and heavy. Every weekend they take a trip to the mountains, to train and to work on their foraging and hunting skills. Mike becomes skilled in skinning the hides of what they catch. Gerger takes on a second part-time job at a bar, mixing drinks and earning generous tips with his creative concoctions, and towards the end of the second year since they’ve all been together Mike starts penning his resignation letter. Mike sees some promising candidates and nostalgic names in the application forms for new workers, and he makes sure to put them on Levi’s desk.

Autumn comes early the year they sell their things and the apartment. They divide the necessities, the tents, the sleeping bags, the hunting tools; they study the route they’ll take, see how far any form of transport can take them. Rene does a reading the night before they leave, and they smile when she draws The Fool.

As the leaves turn yellow they leave like the wind, bringing the last of summer’s rays with them. 

**Author's Note:**

> Lyrics and titles taken from: 
> 
> The Guitar Man by BREAD  
> Great Escape by Cinema Staff


End file.
